


Glassy Bluebottle

by intotheblue



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Butterflies, Dubious Science, Guilt, Harry doesn't remember after being given the dog, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Memory Loss, ktgc spoilers, oh well, sort of lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 17:55:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12173844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheblue/pseuds/intotheblue
Summary: Harry Hart is fifty-five years old, and beginning a new life. It isn't as if he remembers his old one.. . .In which bringing Harry the dog doesn't bring his memories back, and Eggsy and Merlin are forced to let Harry go and live his life as a lepidopterist.





	Glassy Bluebottle

Harry Hart leaves with little more than the bag in his hand, a small puppy, and a year of strange memories.

The first time he'd seen his face in the mirror he screamed, a blood-curdling sound that'd brought Ginger running, armed with a sedative and flanked by a man in a cowboy hat. He'd staggered back in horror, staring not at the bandages that encircled his left eye, but at the lines that adorned his skin. He'd aged thirty years, seemingly overnight.

They placed him in a room with a large mirror, telling him that it would be better if he learned to recognize himself. A small voice in the back of his mind told him it was a lie, told him they wanted to observe him. Something about the glass was wrong. He'd voiced none of this, though, only nodded his acquiescence.

But ultimately, it _had_ helped. He no longer flinches at his reflection, no longer expects to see the smooth skin of youth stretched across his features. He's aged rather well, he thinks, all things considered.

Harry Hart is fifty-five years old, and beginning a new life. It isn't as if he remembers his old one.

 

First, he travels to Mexico, having been invited to join a study regarding the wintering grounds of Monarch butterflies. He suspects that his previous hosts (captors?) have something to do with it. One of the new arrivals, Merlin, had given him a debit card without a logo and told him to spend as much as he wanted, that it would be accepted everywhere, that it would never run out. He uses it to pay for his flight, a few sets of clothes, and accommodations for a month, then hides it in his meager luggage, wary about using it any further.

The night before he leaves Mexico, he dreams about the young man who'd threatened to shoot the dog he'd only just gifted him with. The one who'd lowered the gun with a defeated expression. The one who'd ever so briefly wrapped his arms around Harry, then run from the room, furiously rubbing at his eyes. Harry dreams of him smiling, wearing a cap and the most garish jacket he's ever seen. He dreams of the ghost-like feeling of the back of a hand brushing against his own.

He wakes feeling as though a vise is squeezing his chest.

 

He goes to Canada to study the Western Tiger Swallowtail.  Things are going well, until he sees a Giant Swallowtail, much farther north than it should be, and his heart clenches painfully. He feels as though he's going to be sick, watching it float peacefully by. It's black and yellow marking grates at his memory, stirring something that he immediately presses down. He makes his apologies and is on a plane to South Africa before the sun sets.

He buries himself in the search for Brenton Blues, telling himself that if he helps to save this species, the feeling of _wrong_ that's plagued him since long before the run in with the Swallowtail will finally fade. In Cape Town he sees a young man with golden hair and has to restrain himself from calling out to him. He dreams again, that night, this time of a warm smile sipping at a stirred glass of gin, and of a cheeky wink.

The next day he books a ticket for China and doesn't look back. He pets his tiny travelling companion, grateful for his grounding presence. He wonders how the young man is doing. He avoids the news.

In China he doesn't seek out butterflies. Instead, he wanders. The butterflies come to him. The Green Sapphire, the Dark Jezebel, and the Glassy Bluebottle all grace him with their presence, flitting in front of him as he walks amongst tall grass. The dog chases them gleefully. The young man's face hovers constantly behind his eyes.

 

He doesn't want to remember, he realizes one day, with startling clarity. He doesn't want to be a man with the same desperate look he saw in the eyes of the others. He doesn't want to be a man that could shoot his dog in cold blood. He wonders how it is that the young man could.

_It was a blank. A fucking blank._

The words come unbidden to his mind. He doesn't know what they mean.

 

_Eggsy, he whispers, drawing the young man in close._

_Harry? He asks, hope, and perhaps something else shining in his eyes._

_Dear boy, Harry replies. He brushes his thumb across his prominent cheek bone._

_His eyes flutter shut, as he leans into Harry's touch._

_Suddenly, he steps back and his eyes fly open. Fury dances in them. You said you'd come back, he accuses. You promised! You're just like everyone else._

_Eggsy. Harry reaches out, trying to bridge the gulf that stretches between them._

_Don't, the young man says, turning away, hunching in on himself._

Harry wakes with tears streaming down his cheek and a name he can't bring himself to say on his lips. He packs his meager belongings, gathers the dog in his arms and boards a train across the continent to Moscow.

He stays in Russia only long enough to get another train, this one to Paris. He spends the trip alternately sleeping and watching the landscape slip by. All the while, he thinks of the young man with golden hair and misty green eyes. Snatches of conversation echo in his mind, so many and so varied that he's unsure which are real and which are not.

Once, he dreams of serving his boy breakfast, of teaching him how to dine properly. The boy favors him with that beautiful smile of his more than once, and his eyes sparkle. He listens carefully to everything Harry says, beaming with pride when Harry compliments his progress.

This dream, he's sure is just that. The look in his eyes couldn't have been one he'd ever directed at Harry.

 

In Paris he stops. He rents a tiny apartment overlooking the Seine and converses with the locals in an unaccented French he doesn't remember learning. The energy of the city is comforting, but not quite right. He spends his days curled up in bed with his dog, trying not to drown in half memories and forgotten moments.

Months later, he dreams once again of Eggsy. This time, when the young man runs to embrace him inside that padded white cell, he opens his arms in welcome, grips the boy's waist and buries his face in his neck. _Eggsy_ , he whispers, voice rough and uneven. The boy pulls back, ever so slightly and cups Harry's cheek in his palm. _Harry_ , he says, and his voice breaks. He leans in, gifting him with the barest brush of lips.

Harry wakes. And he _remembers_.

 

The return trip to London is slow, like trying to swim through a sea of molasses. All the while, Harry clutches the small dog who's only home has been his caretaker's lap. Most everything is still a jumble, memories sliding in and out of place. But some things are clear. His name is Harry Hart. He is a Kingsman. He needs to find Eggsy Unwin.

It's only when he's underneath the channel that it occurs to him that Eggsy mightn't even be in London. It's been months, certainly, but how much could there be left for him here? Perhaps he's decided to remain with Statesman indefinitely, joining their ranks instead of helping to rebuild their own.

 

The first place he goes is home. He knows what will be waiting for him there, had overheard Merlin speaking with a Statesman about their predicament, without, at the time, understanding what it meant to him.

The rubble has been cleared, but nothing's been rebuilt yet, leaving an empty lot that's quickly becoming overgrown. He can hear the neighbors' complaints already, he thinks dryly.

He's a bit at a loss after that, so he books a hotel just a few streets over, a short walk from the Gloucester Road station. He uses one of their computers to catch himself up, reads something about a drug that killed tens of thousands before a cure was suddenly and miraculously delivered to the entire world at once. He searches several directories, trying to find an address for a Gary Unwin or a Michelle Baker but comes up empty handed. He's unsurprised. He hacks into city records and searches for properties owned by any of the long list of shell corporations operated by Kingsman. He cross-references those with the list of addresses destroyed six months ago in what's been labeled another in a long line of terror attacks.

It leaves him with fifty-six properties in and around London, not to mention those further out in the country.

It's a start.

Harry spends the next few weeks staking out a different place every day. He supposes he could attempt to make contact using an old code phrase or some such, but he's unsure if the smoldering remains of Kingsman would still be bothering to monitor them. Besides, he'd prefer to do this in his own time, and his own manner.

It's halfway through the fourth week when he finally strikes gold. He watches Michelle Baker leave a townhouse in Islington with a small girl in tow. Daisy, he realizes she must be. He doesn't follow them, doesn't even remain nearby. He knows how to find them now, though.

He begins to take up residence in the coffee shop on the corner of their street, relocating to a closer-by, short term flat rental. He wonders if Merlin is monitoring his debit card usage, wonders if he's guessed yet what Harry's up to.

And then, one day, he sees Eggsy.

His shoulders are slumped, his posture defeated, but it's undeniably him. He holds himself stiffly, as if wounded, and Harry aches to run his hands along the young man's body until he knows that he's well. He watches as Eggsy rings the bell to the townhouse, then slumps exhaustedly against the pillar that supports the small porch's roof.

Michelle opens the door, and immediately tears begin to pour down her cheeks. She draws Eggsy into a tight embrace, which he returns weakly. She wastes no time pulling him inside.

Harry returns to his flat.

 

Three days later, he still hasn't decided what to do. He sits at his table in the coffee shop, now well known enough as a regular that he doesn't even have to order before a steaming mug of coffee is placed in front of him.

Each day, Eggsy's left the house with a grim expression of determination, and returned looking as though he can barely hold himself together. Each day, Harry watches this, and another piece of his heart shatters. Today is no different.

He wonders if making himself known would relieve some of that burden, or if he would simply add to it.

In the end, the decision is taken from him.

 

"Harry?" The devastatingly familiar voice is tight, but laced with an undercurrent of hope.

He turns slowly, facing the young man who's haunted his dreams since last they met. "Eggsy," Harry exhales, unable to keep his tone from dripping in warmth and relief.

The younger man's expression morphs into one of disbelieving hope. He bites his lower lip and looks down. "Is it… do you…?" He's unable to finish the question.

"Dear boy," Harry says, in lieu of an answer, placing his hand on Eggsy's shoulder.

Eggsy's head snaps up, eyes wide in wonder. "Harry," he says again, choked with emotion. It takes him barely a moment before he's flung his arms around the older man's neck, clinging to him as if his life depended on it. "God, I've missed you," he whispers.

"And I, you," Harry replies, burying his head in Eggsy's neck.

 

For a moment, there's no one else in the world, but soon enough, the busy street makes itself known again, and they're forced to separate amid the jostling crowd. Eggsy's hands linger on his arms, and his eyes search Harry's face. He bites his lip again.

"Can… can we talk?" Eggsy asks apprehensively.

Harry nods and gestures for him to lead the way.

Eggsy brings him back to his mother's townhouse, thankfully empty but for the clicking of a small pug's claws on the hardwood. Harry smiles softly at the sight, at the home that Eggsy's built for his family.

The young man in question leads him to a sitting room. They sit on a small sofa, facing one another. For several minutes, Eggsy is quiet.

"How long?" he finally asks, carefully, as if he's afraid to break the silence.

"About a month," Harry replies.

Eggsy's face falls, and though he's quick to school his expression, it's hard not to see the warring emotions in his eyes. "Were you ever going to tell me?" he asks, voice hollow.

"I dreamt of you," Harry says, instead of answering the question. "Almost from the day we parted. At first, I didn't understand. Couldn't understand, that is, why you inspired such strong feelings in my subconscious. So I ran. From country to country, across continents. But the dreams only came more frequently."

Eggsy wears an awestruck expression. He makes an aborted gesture towards Harry's hand, as if to reach out and pull it into his own. Harry completes the motion, twining his fingers with Eggsy's.

"I eventually came to realize that some of those dreams were memories. It was difficult to tell which was which. But then…" Harry gives Eggsy's hand a gentle squeeze. "Did Ginger ever tell you how it is that a subject might regain his or her memories after treatment with alpha gel?"

Eggsy nods, eyebrows furrow. "Being reminded of a trauma," he says.

Harry nods. "Indeed. But in my case, I think the word 'shock' might be more appropriate. You see," Harry says, "the shock of my life was realizing how very deeply I've fallen in love with you, Eggsy."

Eggsy's mouth falls open. And then, all at once, he's surging across the space between them, catching the older man's jaw in his hand, and pressing his mouth insistently against Harry's. It's so much more than his dream, so much better. Harry returns the kiss with everything he has, pouring all of the pent up love and emotion he can muster into the sweet slide of lips. His arms wrap around Eggsy's waist of their own volition, pulling him into Harry's lap, removing the last sliver of space between them.

Eggsy breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Harry's. "God, I've missed you, Harry, I've missed you so fucking much. You know I love you too, yeah?" he says.

"I had hoped," Harry says softly, skimming his hand up and down Eggsy's ribcage.

The younger man smiles, but it's watery and broken. His eyes shine with unshed tears. He buries his head in the crook of Harry's neck and fists his hands into his shirt. His shoulders begin to shake, and his fingers tremble finely. Harry runs his hands soothing up and down his spine.

"I thought – I thought I weren't ever gonna see you again," he mumbles. "I told m'self you'd be happier out there, but _fuck_ I needed you, Harry. I need you." The last part is barely a whisper.

"I'm here, dear boy," Harry murmurs in his ear. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You should," Eggsy says, and though the grip on his shirt doesn't lessen, Eggsy's voice is cold.

Harry's heart leaps into his throat and he freezes.

"They're all dead," Eggsy continues, "everyone. An' it's my fault." He takes a deep shuddering breath. "I killed them," he whispers.

"Oh, Eggsy," Harry says, holding him impossibly closer. "It isn't your fault," he says, pressing a kiss into his temple. "And if it were, I'd still be here. I'd still love you, just as I do now."

"Thank you for coming back," Eggsy breathes, nearly inaudible.

"For you, dear boy, anything."

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Title is the name of a butterfly. I have a lot of feelings about tgc, can you tell?


End file.
